War is a Child of Human Nature
by Mad Possum
Summary: ... but some humans are children of War. War recalls some of her greatest triumphs


A few authors on here have written about the idea of War having mortal children, and I found myself wondering what such children would be like. Then I realised I didn't have to wonder, I just needed to look at history.

R&R... Please? Anyone?

And no, I do not own any of the characters or content; War is owned by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman... or God, maybe. The rest is owned by the world in general and history in particular.

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War was more human than the other horsemen. Her problem was that while she represented what humans fear, as did her colleagues, she also revelled in what humans revelled in; the slaughter of her enemies, the hot blood of a foe slain, and the exhilaration of riding down fleeing combatants. All of them, War found exquisite, as did many humans.

Because she was so human, War found herself experimenting with other human pleasures; gambling she found pointless, and no amount of alcohol could dull the razor edge of her mind. Sex however... there was something so primal in sex, the only human action older than war. War enjoyed it wildly, never thinking of the occasional consequences; half mortal bastards, doomed to live among humans with adoptive parents. But sometimes, these bastards could be more useful than War could have possibly imagined.

-----

War was exhilarated. This was an age she would learn to love; humans had moved on from mud huts and had founded civilisations, ensuring battles would leave dead in numbers in thousands rather than scores, and yet war was still all about hacking your opponent to pieces for saying that about your 3rd cousin's wife's sister, none of the intricate politics that would come later.

War watched with admiration as her son fought on the beaches of Troy. He was outnumbered at least twenty to one, and there was no way he could defend himself, but that didn't matter; being the bastard of War had some advantages that the adrenaline of battle awoke in him. A sword stabbed straight down through his shoulder into his heart, and yet all the warrior did was tear the sword from his flesh and shrug as the bone knitted and flesh healed. An arrow pierced his neck and came straight out the other side, but the bronze armoured man just swallowed and kept fighting. His sword drank deep of the blood of his enemies.

A few minutes later, it was over, and some hoplites were gingerly stepping over the mounds of corpses towards their prince. War still worried about his heel sometimes, but not for long. She had interfered with the oracle's predictions to get the warrior here, persuading her to tell the Greek King his war could not be won without this Prince of the Myrmidons.

Looking at the piles of corpses around her prodigy, she could tell the effort had been worth it.

-----

Macedon was never a country War had taken much interest in. It was small, mountainous, and full of mountain goats, which had never quite caught on in war as elephants and horses had. Now, however, she turned her attention to a King of that state, although he was a long way from home. On the banks of the Hydaspes River, thousands of corpses of men, horses and elephants littered the ground. The dark skin of the men of Indus was a stark contrast to the skin of the Greeks, Macedonians and Persian conscripts who lay among them.

War stood beside a blond man, who himself was surrounded be huge men in bronze helmets with horsehair crests, carrying long hopla spears. A huge 7 foot tall Indian was pushed to his knees in front of the blond man. War was harsh;

"Kill him." The Indian glanced at her, and War felt herself scrutinised. She stared back at him with orange eyes. The Indian blinked once, languidly, and turned his attention back to the blond man.

He in turn stopped gazing at the Hydaspes, literally running red with blood. His eyes locked on the kneeling man, holding him in a steady, powerful gaze.

"So, Porus, your army is defeated and your kingdoms of mine. Tactics, taxation, supply problems... all forgotten. All you must consider now is... how do you wish to be treated?"

The man identified as Porus looked back at the blond man, and War found herself impressed, despite herself. No fear registered in the man's eyes, no subservience, only a faint glimmer of respect for the better general.

"Like a King."

The blond man laughed. He was impressed with the arrogance and courage of the man. He did the one thing War could not forgive, something she had not learnt the value of so early in her own career. He showed mercy.

That night, War left the camp. Without her presence, the army lost heart. Without War, without war, the blond man could not live.

-----

War liked the number 13. 13: Unlucky for some. The bad luck almost always meant bloodshed. If War had had the capacity to have feelings overlap, she might almost have been aroused by the bloodshed this 13th had caused. The Legio XIII Gemina stood to attention in marching order on the roads north of the River.

Unseen, War, dressed in the armour of Minerva, Roman Goddess of Warriors and Wisdom, red hair falling around her so similar to the tresses of Venus, passed through the ranks. She finally caught sight of a group of horsemen at the head of the column, staring into the river.

War came even with them. She started at their leader, a powerfully built man whose hair was starting to show the signs of thinning. War paused. Even she knew she could hardly ask for more blood from this man; the man who had fought pirates, who had conquered Gaul and invaded Britannia. War shook herself; she forgot what blood was in his own veins.

She drifted off the ground, until her head was level with the horseman's. She leaned forward and gently kissed the man's cheek, unseen and unheard, but not unfelt by the man, who had become used to such feelings in his life. She whispered in his ear,

"Hail Caesar, Emperor of Rome."

The man's resolve stiffened. He glanced left at Mark Anthony, then right at Marcus Brutus.

"The die is cast," he said shortly, and sent his horse trotting down into the ford.

War stood aside as the Leigon crossed the Rubicon. She put her right fist to her left breast, then extended her arm straight ahead in the Roman salute. Even if the Legion could see her, they would have been unable to see where she suddenly disappeared to.

-----

War was immeasurably proud of the French Revolution. So much death, so much bloodshed, all from one single event. And now, all because of one single human. She stood at the roadside, smiling as the soldiers marched past. There were a few wolf whistles directed at her, and a few offers of payment for the services the Frenchmen assumed she provided. She smiled at them with teeth just slightly too sharp.

Over half a million men from all across Europe were marching into Russia on this glorious June day of 1812. To the West, an English aristocrat with a piece of footwear named after him was leading the armies of three nations against yet more blue coated soldiers. Even further West, a war only 6 days old threw red coated Britons and Canadians against blue jacketed Americans. In July, she knew that Americans would invade Canada, and the battle of Salamanca in Spain would earn a bloody place in the history books.Klyastitsy would carve a well blooded niche in them as well. As for the rest of the year... well, wait and see, War told herself. Wait and see what she could cook up.

So many battles, so many deaths, all down to one man. War heard the distant strains of La Marseillaise, and saw the golden eagles of the Old Guard. Behind them came a carriage surrounded by giant men in bearskins carrying halberds, and wearing the markings of the Immortals. On it's door, a golden crest of the letter N was inlaid in the middle of a wreath of laurels. As the coach passed, War curtseyed, careful to exaggerate the motion as though to mock it. She caught the eye of the diminutive Corsican riding in the carriage, who nodded courteously to her with a knowing smile.

-----

Over thirteen decades later, War still smarted at the fate of the great army she watched march into Russia. Famine and Pestilence had stolen them from her, claiming for their own the souls she had recruited and cajoled to paint the Russian steppe red with blood. Instead, they had died to the cold, the lack of food, the disease spreading so far among such a concentration of humanity.

Now the same was happening again. Corpses lay frozen solid in deep Russian snow, wearing newspaper boots due to lack of supplies. But War knew that there was fight in them yet.

Dressed in a black uniform she rather liked, with a red armband that almost matched her hair, War stepped out of the car outside the tunnel entrance to Kehlsteinhaus. She smiled at the SS guards who saluted her, straightening their arms in front of their bodies in the way that still, after all this time, reminded War of that day on the banks of the Rubicon.

She walked unchallenged through the complex corridors of the chateaux, until she reached a room with still more SS guards, from which came voices. The men did not challenge her as she stepped through the doorway.

A man with a small moustache glanced up at her, and straightened, his generals following suit. War, as a rule, liked facial hair in a man; reminded her of the Barbarian tribes among whom warmongering was so much easier, but she always felt that that moustache just shouldn't be allowed to exist. The man was a slight disappointment; in the last war (and boy had that been hard to arrange), he had proven he was no coward, but he was no great hero; War couldn't remember ever seeing him hold a sword come to that. Still, she smiled, a lazily saluted the man, and started looking at the wall hangings and pictures in a way that clearly said, 'Please, act as if I wasn't here'. Despite themselves, the men did.

"Fuhrer, the army is starving. It is freezing. They are underequipped. If we do not quit the city and fall back from the Volga, the casualties will be unsustainable."

This was what War had come from. Her paused in the act of stoking the blade of an ancient sword mounted above a fireplace. She looked at the moustached man. Almost against his will, he found his gaze drawn up from the map until he was looking at War. She pouted slightly and shook her head. That is perhaps a simplified version of events; the shaking of her head had effects across the room and moved certain things in the mind of the moustached man.

He straightened. He locked gaze with the general who had spoken. He said one word.

"Nein."

War smiled. That word would have consequences; consequences she couldn't wait to see. All the disappointment in this weak being was set aside because, while he could fence to save his life, he could get thousands of others to give their lives in battle. And, War had to admit, that was the hard part of her job.

-----

Oh yes. The Children of War had done so much to further their mother's cause. Motherly pride was not a feeling War was familiar with; martial pride, however, was, and her pride in the skills of all her offspring was immeasurable.

All these moments of her life flashed across War's mind as she watched her most recent bastard, barely even out of his teens, learn how to fire an assault rifle. She smiled to herself as she saw the expression on the Drill Sergeant's face as every bullet hit the centre of the target.

Wait until you show him a tank, she thought.


End file.
